Don't sit down cause I've moved your chair (Málaga, Day 2)

Yesterday's clouds are gone and the temperature is on the rise again. We ditched yesterday's breakfast venue for Krumble, a café/patisserie not much further toward the old town. An excellent find. The coffee was a tad bitter for my taste but the croissants were excellent. I'd venture to say the best I've had outside France, dear reader.

Tempting.

From Krumble, we went in search of the Centre Pompidou. That's not completely accurate; we knew where the centre was because it has a perspex multi-coloured cube on ground level. It was the entrance we weren't sure about. There was definitely no door in the cube so I reasoned the entrance had to be underneath, on the same level as Pier One and the shops and restaurants.

The Pompidou cube.

We walked past a large white panel that proclaimed the Pompidou opening hours and that it is closed only 2 days of the year. No entrance there. Around the corner was the ramp to the next level and the cube. No entrance there. Back down again to the white panel. This time I read it more carefully. Closed only two days of the year ... and Tuesdays. Today was... yep, no need to go on.

Bluey is everywhere.

Plan B. Visit the Picasso Museum. I had checked on the website and there was plenty of availability. There were only two cruise ships in port so access shouldn't be a problem. Except everyone from the ships decided to visit the Picasso museum that morning. What ever happened to sleeping late and enjoying your holiday? The queue was around the corner and the sign said 'sold out'. We back-tracked a little, found a seat in the shade and checked the museum website - there was availability today. I booked for 1:00pm in the hope that the cruise crowd would be eating lunch or having a siesta.

Street art.

Plan C. Picasso Casa Natale. This is also a museum of sorts and hosts exhibitions of his work. It was less than a 10 minute walk from the museum so off we went, dodging tour groups all the while. Picasso's house, at least where he was born, is situated off a square or plaza. There was a number of groups milling around so we went directly to the door to read "the house is closed due to a change in exhibition". It reopens on October 22nd. A tad too long to wait.

A random church.

Curses foiled again, as Snidely Whiplash would say. So we sat and people watched for a while. There was obviously some treasure hunt game happening from one of the cruise ships, as groups of people entered the park area, one in each group wearing a plastic lei. Mmmm, such fun. We wandered back towards Pier One to have a look around the markets and the rich people's boats.

In the Square near Picasso Casa Natale.

Finally we made the Picasso Museum and went through both exhibitions. In terms of Picasso, I've seen better exhibitions of his work - the one at the Victorian Art Gallery in Melbourne a few years back comes to mind. These comprise works on loan from his daughter-in-law and his grandson. Additionally, there were some interesting works on display from some of Picasso's contemporaries.

Imagine what he could do with Gina Rinehart?

As I have mentioned previously, travel is supposed to broaden one's mind. It just makes me dislike people more. Who, in their right mind, would bring two toddlers to an art exhibition? In a double pram? I know it's a generational thing, but seriously. One pre-language child discovered the joy of echo chambers. He was enjoying himself. His older sister thought it fun to march around, slapping her feet as loudly as possible. One of the security people ordered her back to her mother's side and sent her father outside to continue his phone call away from the art works. They should be called the 'entitled' generation. Absolutely no consideration or concern for anyone but themselves.

Electro-sexual Sewing Machine by Dominguez.

Then it was back to the hotel to blog and rest before a 5pm guided tour of the Roman Theatre and Alcazaba. We were certainly getting our steps up today. I had chosen this time because I reasoned the cruise ships leave in the late afternoon so that crowd would all be ship bound. And because when I booked, there were only two other people registered.

Sad face to see a large crowd around our red umbrella meeting point. Happily the group was then divided into Spanish and English, although we still ended up with 22 people. One, a young girl from Thailand had bought her suitcase with her. Now the tour was of the theatre and fortress. The fort, as you might expect, was carved out of the hill side and reached from the lower level to the top of the hill. No lift. No smooth pathway. Fortunately for her, a nice young American man offered to carry the case for her after he saw her initial struggles. The couple with the pram sensibly ditched it at the start of the tour and carried the child.

It was a steep climb.

Like most of southern Spain, this area has a history of conquest, defeat, conquest and was shared by Romans, Visigoths, Christians and Muslims over the years. Similar to the Roman Theatre in Cartagena, the fort was only rediscovered recently. In the 1960s, the government was 'rehabilitating' a less than desirable suburb and discovered some wonderful columns and arches that had been 'appropriated' by the people to build their houses. Rehabilitation became an archaeological quest and parts of the fort, Alcazaba, were reclaimed and restored.

Arches and bricks.

And columns. Different eras.

Gardens and water for a calming influence.

That night we hit the roof top bar for drinks and food and shots of the sunset. Well, two out of three ain't bad. The cloudless sky did little to enhance the sunset, although the moon was the star (OK moon) of the show. The photos Jayne took with her mobile on the first night look like the best we'll get as far as a colourful sunset goes.

The roof top terrace.

Time for bed after a big day of walking, over 22,000 steps.

Sunset, as it was.

Oops, I almost forgot. The title, dear reader. The latest trend in Spanish hotels is to dispense with carpet and have marble or faux wooden floors. In our current abode, we have marble. The chair at the desk is large, heavy and awkward to move. If not picked up carefully, it makes quite a racket, so every time someone moves a chair, you hear it. Not so pleasant at 1:30am. Hence the Arctic Monkeys and Don't Sit Down Cause I've Moved Your Chair.

Until tomorrow.

Mrs Bartolozzi (Málaga, Spain)

The next morning was rather grey and cloudy but that wasn't the most disappointing aspect to the day, dear reader. Turning the corner onto the waterfront and seeing two cruise ships in port, that was disappointing. It means the streets will be filled groups following flags. I don't have an issue with that as such, I have succumbed to joining such groups on occasion. My issue is with their mindless behaviour. However, disappointing turned to devastating when the whole port was in view. Not two, but four ships: combined mass to be disgorged onto the streets - just under 10,000 people. Yay.

Not a pretty picture.

Time travelling meant we needed a laundromat, after breakfast of course. We found a local café that was well reviewed and popular with the locals but it was also relatively expensive. Relatively because breakfast for one at the hotel is €28. We paid just under €18 for both of us; still a bit pricey for two coffees and two serves of tostados.

The fountain at the main roundabout.

We walked to the laundry after breakfast. It had excellent reviews and the owner/operator proved to be as delightful as previous customers had said. The only problem for us was that his laundry was closed for renovations and wouldn't be fully functional for a month. He directed us to the nearest self-service laundry. 

We went back to the hotel to gather the camera and all we needed for the day's excursions and walked down the main street to the old town. The recommended laundromat was just beyond. It was small and not all the machines were operational but it looked clean. It would have to do.

The walk to the old town is decorated by many different hibiscus plants

Into the old town we went, to be confronted by tour group after tour group, following flags or paddles that denoted the ship they were on. It was crowded, very crowded, as one of my favourite poets once wrote, "the crowds upon the pavement were like fields of harvest wheat". I would have liked a scythe to harvest a few of the less considerate stalks.

Jayne had discovered a walking tour of the old town that highlighted the main sites and had dovetailed this with recommendations form the hotel staff. The markets were not fully open, but we squeezed in there. It was similar to the markets in Valencia although the building wasn't as grand. There were stalls selling all the usual produce, fruit, vegetables, seafood, meat, cured meats, nuts, gelato and so on. 

The manic markets.

We found an exit and made our retreat into the fresh air. Next stop was the church of San Juan, because we walked past it. Well, we stumbled upon it. We were actually looking for the Cathedral and I saw a bell tower. The wrong one as it turns out, but we popped in to the church anyway.

The church of San Juan.

The search for the Cathedral continued. It is known as the 'one armed lady' because only one bell tower was ever completed. Not that you'd know from ground level. It is difficult to photograph because of encroaching buildings, crowds and the sheer size of the Cathedral itself. Apparently they are experiencing water issues with the roof and it is covered with a temporary structure.

Part of the Cathedral exterior.

To enter the Cathedral, you need to part with €10 or €9 if you're old like me. Interestingly Jayne had declined entrance to the Barcelona Cathedral because of the excessive cost, but we lured inside by the pictures of the interior of the Málaga Cathedral. Looks can be deceptive, dear reader. The interior did not shine bright and golden like the enhanced photos at the entrance.

It was quite crowded inside. I'm sure some priests in Australia would have been thrilled if this many people turned up for Sunday mass. It was also still and humid. The conditions were not ideal. I snapped a few photos, tried to ascertain where the organist sat to operate the organ and then exited 'through the gift shop' so I could breathe again.

I've seen bigger.

The next place to check off our list was the Roman Theatre. Once again, dear reader, I assert that size does matter. The theatre in Cartagena made the Málaga version look, well, let's just say it was the Palais Garnier compared with a country town hall. Yes, it was small and not a lot of it had been restored. 

The Roman Theatre.

Our intention was to do a guided tour of the theatre and Alcazabar later so we didn't loiter but sought out a bar to have an afternoon beer. All the restaurants, cafés and bars were buzzing but we scored a front table not far from the theatre and settled down for a Málaga lager.

The usual people watching was enhanced by a group of enterprising young locals who put on an impromptu break dancing display, complete with music. Once the performance was over they walked around, hat in hand and then moved a few doors down to another set of drinkers/diners. I'm not sure how productive their work was proving but there was no doubting their ability or fitness.

Saw this in a side street.

Rehydration complete, we returned to the hotel and grabbed our laundry and walked to the laundromat in the hope that siesta time would see the machines empty. A plan that almost worked. There were three small machines. One was in use and one labelled 'out of order' and the third? Its handle was broken so it to was out of order which meant using a 14kg machine. Who has that much washing? It cost extra but hey, to have a pair of underpants laundered at the hotel was €5. To wash and dry our clothes cost €12.50 and we had a lot more than three pairs of knickers. Bargain.

The rather obscure title, Mrs Bartolozzi, is a song by Kate Bush where she sings about washing the clothes, metaphorically of course. Since we spent part of the day in the laundromat it works.

To while away the time, we walked into Soho proper. The tour guide maintained there was street art adorning the buildings. The tour guide was wrong. There were a couple of feeble attempts at art, a lot of graffiti and bugger all else. We combed the nearby streets methodically, because we had the time while the washing and drying was happening. And ... nothing. No sides of buildings adorned with paintings of birds by famous street artists. There were more sex shops than street art, but Jayne wouldn't let me browse. A fruitless search but it filled in the time.

The best of Soho.

Dinner tonight was at a nearby Italian restaurant, literally across the street from the hotel. It's quite a large establishment. As you walk in, there are tables to the right that could seat 40 or so people and then the area to the left where there were about 10 patrons seated with plenty of vacant space.

We were greeted with, "Do you have a reservation"? Perhaps greeted is the wrong term, it was more an accusation. He dismissed us to the young woman resetting tables, we were seated and we watched as a pizza and the biggest calzone I've ever seen arrive at the next table. We exchanged glances, hmmm, large serves, proper Italian.

After some discussion, we settled on zucchini flowers, a caprese salad and one pizza between us. A wise decision as we watched the people next to us move the food around their plates. I doubt they would have finished one pizza between them and most of their dinner ended up in the bin. Such a waste.

And that was about it for the day. Tomorrow we head back into the old town for a dose of Picasso.

Until next time.